There's a knot of thought inside my head and it won't let me sleep. Noise that won't organize itself into anything clear or useful, banging against the walls of my brain, demanding release with nowhere to go.

Here it goes.


I've had Twenty Miles by Deer Tick on loop for two days. A three minute soundtrack for the same jumble of feelings that refuse to lay straight and calm, to give me a chance to examine them one at a time. Which would only be fair. But no one said. No one said.


Every day I get five, six, seven pieces of junk mail addressed to my father. All of his awful right wing political crap. They said it wouldn't follow me here, back to California. They said only the important stuff would come. It's here, though, with a vengeance, flooding me with pleas to pledge money to Tea Party Republicans, to the NRA, to the fucking John Birch Society.

Every day I open the mailbox with dread and annoyance. And yet I'd happily take it all, a truckload every day, if I could just pick up the phone and say, "Dad. What the fuck. I'm getting your shitty wingnut mail. I'm sending it back to you, COD." He'd laugh and say OK good-naturedly, and then he'd probably order me a Keith Olbermann book off of Amazon.

A truckload, I'd take.


When I was in my twenties, I dabbled in writing erotica. Not for any reason other than my own curiosity, to see what it would feel like to write my own fantasies. To feel out their edges and sound their depths. I never showed anyone, but not out of shyness or shame. I just never met anyone tuned to the same frequency. I was afraid that if I gave out my call letters, all they'd hear was static.


I'm starting to understand the importance of personal boundaries. Of knowing what my heart can and can't handle, and protecting it from careless recreational use. Opting out can be so empowering. I've opted out a lot lately. Thank you kindly, but no thank you. I've been holding out.

It's amazing to me, that when I minimize the emotional clutter in my life, when I carefully sort the trash from the recyclables, and keep a nice, open space in my heart and head, how beautiful and exciting things come into view. But it's like looking into a blinding, bright horizon, trying to catch a glimpse of an oasis. The glimmer and glint will dance and trick your eyes, and you won't be sure if you saw water or just more light. It shrinks and grows, shrinks and grows, for hours or even days. But keep shading your eyes and walking straight, and it won't have any choice but to eventually appear, complete and perfect. That's not wishful thinking. That's just physics.

Things in the future are larger than they appear.